


even though you've lost your mind

by kitmarlowed



Category: Da Vinci's Demons
Genre: M/M, introspective, what even is my favourite tag with this fandom, what is a riario and how does it work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-23
Updated: 2013-06-23
Packaged: 2017-12-15 22:28:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/854703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitmarlowed/pseuds/kitmarlowed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He gives as good as he gets, and the battle for the soul of Florence suddenly doesn’t seem that important (the Book of Leaves becomes a reason to stay close, not a holy quest); he does not know what his God wants of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	even though you've lost your mind

**Author's Note:**

> this happened and i couldn't quite control it

Faith is not something he questions, not anymore. His belief is unshakeable but it is on his own terms, there’s no more to this than that.

 

The argument for Florence is that it has turned itself from God, that He commands the forces of the faithful to reclaim the land, free the sinners from the prisons of their wanton blasphemy; that’s what the Holy Father tells his allies to get by without reproach, none to many line up to incite the wrath of Heaven. He knows though, he sees the need for land, for a proprietary interest that reaches further than the Papal States. It’s a game of control, and Florence runs free, flaunts this in the face of Rome, exalts its artisans, worships only what is necessary. He is sure that they have faith, at least that the Medici family do, but any faith that is not the Pope’s is playing a dangerous game and Riario learnt a long time ago not to argue. In debates of faith the heathens say ‘your God’ and yes, Riario thinks, perhaps he is selfish, perhaps his God is not the one of Rome, or maybe his faith is purer. What he is, who he is, is unholy, on occasion he sees the liberty in that.

 

What he’s doing is not holy, sanctioning the taking of a child from the street, the torture device, but this has gotten bigger than God’s interest in the affairs of men. The champion of Mithras, the Turk’s new man, da Vinci (he tries not to feel kindred, brilliant bastards, the fucking age old cliche); forces the questioning. Why is this man more favourable than I? Why the artist, a genius, granted, but still, why is he favoured, why is he the good in this equation. Riario wants the knowledge, maybe he won’t give it away.

 

What da Vinci is, he finds, is a man torn apart by conflicts. A loyalty to Florence, a quest for a book from some strange orphic cult; the love of a woman (an affair with a mistress, how very pedestrian), the love of men. An uncontainable force of atheistic logic, science, imagination, contained, though, by a human heart too frail to keep the running up, a mind too weak to comprehend the level upon level of thinking. Riario sometimes thinks his own thoughts will tear him apart, he thanks whatever’s listening that he is not da Vinci.  
When da Vinci laughs at him, he feels his interest flicker and grow stronger for it. Opposition brings out the best in people, he’s always found (it is the best because it is the truth, and the truth is always darker than the happy lie).

 

When it happens the first time (and he won’t flatter himself enough to call it an inevitability) it’s angry, rough, better than anything he’s ever known and all’s fair in love and war because love is war. Da Vinci presses bruises into his skin, he knows that he’ll have handprints circling his wrists, manacles, he cannot bring himself to care. He doesn’t care that it is not condoned, cares not that it’s a crime, his care is in their harsh breathing, his care is in the fact that da Vinci hates him and that it’s glorious. He couldn’t stand indifference and he’ll never let it be known, the confession would ruin him.

 

He accepts the madness that lies in the curve of Leonardo da Vinci’s throat as part and parcel of whatever deal it is he’s made. He gives as good as he gets, and the battle for the soul of Florence suddenly doesn’t seem that important (the Book of Leaves becomes a reason to stay close, not a holy quest); he does not know what his God wants of him.

 

_He_ wants this, this whatever it is they have, this fragile peace that isn’t a peace at all, not even a cessation of hostilities when they are together. Whatever price he has to pay, he thinks, is worth it.

 

(Do you believe this? A crusader turned from a Holy Quest and into the arms of a mad artist? Stranger than fiction. Maybe.)


End file.
